Pull

Greetings ThailandStorites: Dana here with a story and a message of inspiration. Let me just start by saying that I have more money than God. Normally, I do not make it a habit to parade my good fortune but in this case it is germane. Since I have so much money people wonder why I bought a condo in the building in which I am currently happily residing in Pattaya. It doesn't seem to make any sense. Read on.

Simple. The reason I bought the place I am at when I could have bought better places is poor construction. I know it is all the rage to hunt down condo buildings that exhibit good construction, but that was not what I wanted. And I most especially, and critically, did not want a building with a rebar reinforced concrete roof. Reinforced floors were no problem and in fact desired. But a roof of no standards, and cheap materials, and Third World engineering was what I was looking for. So when I insisted that the realtor take me to the roof and I could see nothing but scallops I was thrilled. Scallops or dished panels on roofs are an indication of very poor construction. The roof panels can not even carry their own weight between the roof beams. Beautiful. Honk if you love Third World corruption in building practices.

In fact a roof with chessboard squares of dished roof panels between roof beams means only one thing. Plywood. Be still my wildly beating heart just what I was looking for. Two layers of four by eight foot sheets of exterior grade one inch plywood sheet attached to aluminum box beams with sheet metal screws. Then the whole thing covered with roofing paper and roofing felt and roofing cement and a neoprene cover. With no snow or ice expected in the next one thousand years; and a slight elevation on one side for drainage, this type of cheap construction works--for a while.

After the papers had passed and I moved in it was tool time. A generator, and a pneumatic chisel, and a reciprocating saw, and a chainsaw. Very careful measuring including many trips to the roof to check on the locations of exploratory drill holes, and then the final commitment. I cut the ceiling out of the living room. Nothing but air. The siege engine or Trebuchet catapult had already been assembled, and tested, and then broken down into carefully labeled pieces off site.

Burmese teak frame, rosewood crossbar, yang (mahogany) trim, pine throwing arm, telephone pole cable slings, steel reinforcing plates torched out of new green transformer boxes on Beach Road boulevard, and a water buffalo hide pouch. Monk blessed and flower bedecked it was thrilling to look at. The last thing I did was oil all the wood and spray paint the leather pouch pink. Moving it in, and assembling it in the living room, and fastening the base to the floor with lag bolts, and testing it took five days. What is more fun than being a man and doing man stuff?

Then the onsite artillery numbers. I found it could throw weights of up to one hundred and ten pounds one hundred yards. Elevation could be adjusted to move the landing point out or in, and it was possible to turn the whole thing 360 degrees so that it could deliver in any direction. North, south, east, or west it did not matter. This was helpful. Too many throws in the same direction and people could trace this back to me.

So, why construct a Medieval catapult in the penthouse living room of a shoreside cliff condo in Pattaya? Simple. Ever take home a bargirl and suddenly she wants to change the rules? Or she locks herself in the bathroom? Or she can't get the towel off? Or she goes starfish? Or she pouts and whines and wants you to hurry? Or she wants you to wear a condom? Etc?

Hey, it does not happen all the time. Usually my charisma, and my charm, and my good looks steamroller right over these little bargirl bumps in the road. But sometimes it does happen. And that is when I crank down the main beam throwing arm against the thousands of pounds in the counterweight, put little miss pouty into the leather slingshot pouch, aim; and "PULL". Shouting "PULL" has to be one of the greatest pleasures a rich expat can have in the Kingdom. As they sit in the pink water buffalo slingshot pouch playing with their cellphones; I slip the claws of a carpenter's hammer under the trigger pin, flex my forearms, crouch; and then jump straight up and shout "PULL".

The counter weight drops and the long pine throwing arm heads for the hole in the ceiling: pulling the wire cable sling, and the slingshot pouch holding the bargirl along the guide chute and then erupting skyward. The bargirls burst from the roof like flushed pheasants and start a ride of glory their friends can only dream of. Sometimes the only sound is of the ancient apparatus explosively squeaking and groaning and heaving as it's potential energy is converted to kinetic energy. But other times I am treated to a long scream in the Pattaya night. Beautiful. I'll drink to that.

Of course, for reasons of security nice arcing shots from the roof of the building into the ocean were best. Shots ending in terrestrial landings were liable to attract too much attention: glancing rebounds, frightened tourists, smashed windshields, car alarms going off, and dogs barking. But one gets bored. I fired bargirls out of the roof of my condo in every quadrant, half quadrant, and quarter quadrant of the compass like a school boy jacking off while standing on a paint can mixer.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. Oh, someone must be at the door. Let's look through the peep hole and see who it is. Great, it is Pim from the Red Point bar on the Beach Road end of Soi 6. Dumb as a bucket of paint, cute, sexy, fun and only weighs eighty six pounds. She'll fly further. You know, if there are any problems.

"PULL"

© Dana. All rights reserved by the author.